there was; take the thing you are least in want of, and hide it—that’s a jackdaw. I should know,” added Jorian, oracularly, “for I was brought up with a jackdaw. He and I were born the same year, but he cut his teeth long before me, and, wow! but my life was a burden for years all along of him. If you had but a hole in your hose no bigger than a groat, in went his beak like a gimlet; and in the matter of stealing, he was Gerard all over. What he wanted least, and any poor Christian in the house wanted most, that went first. Mother was a notable woman, so if she did but look round, away flew her thimble. Father lived by cordwaining, so about sunrise Jack went diligently away with his awl, his wax, and his twine. After that, make your bread how you could! One day I heard my mother tell him to his face he was enough to corrupt half a dozen children; and he only cocked his eye at her, and next minute away with the nurseling’s shoe off his very foot. Now this Gerard is tarred with the same stick. The parchments are no more unto him than a thimble or an awl to Jack. He took ’em out of pure mischief and hid them, and you would never have found them but for me.”
“I believe you are right,” said Ghysbrecht, “and I have vexed myself more than need.”
When they came to Peter’s gate he felt uneasy.
“I wish it had been anywhere but here.”
Jorian re-assured him.
“The girl is honest and friendly,” said he. “She had nothing to do with taking them, I’ll be sworn!” and he led him into the garden. “There, master, if a face is to be believed, here they lie; and, see, the mould is loose.”
He ran for a spade which was stuck up in the ground at some distance, and soon went to work and uncovered a parchment. Ghysbrecht saw it, and thrust him aside and went down on his knees and tore it out of the hole. His hands trembled and his face shone. He threw out parchment after parchment, and Jorian dusted them and cleaned them and shook them. Now, when Ghysbrecht had thrown out a great many, his face began to darken and lengthen, and when he came to the last he put his hands to his temples and seemed to be all amazed. Then a chill traversed his frame.
“What mystery lies here?” he gasped. “Are fiends mocking me? Dig deeper! There must be another!”
(To be continued.)
TWO PARTINGS.
We parted once before. You wept
When I rose up to go, you did;
You pray’d for me before you slept,
You little love, you know you did!
And no grief now is on that brow,
Which then, you said, throbb’d so, you did;
You loved me better then than now,—
You cruel thing, you know you did!
Do you remember what the sea,
I took you out to show you, did?
You made a pretty simile;
You false of tongue, you know you did!
You sighed, “That life were like its crests
When sunshine breezes blow,” you did!
“To catch love’s light before it rests!”
You cold, cold heart, you know you did.
What have I done? You smile no more
On me as months ago you did;
You deem my homage now a bore;
You liked it then, you know you did.
“How blest,” you said, “were life with one
Who’d love one truly!” O, you did!
But—you thought I was an elder son,—
You utter flirt, you know you did!
AN EVENING IN “THE CITY OF
PALACES.”
ABOUT six o’clock every evening the beau monde of Calcutta begins to take the air on the Course, a very pleasant drive which runs along the bank of the river. There are quite as many carriages as by the Serpentine in the most crowded part of the season; but it must he confessed that none of them would be likely to excite the envy of an owner of a “fashionable turn-out” at home unless indeed it might be now and then for the sake of their occupants. However incongruous a native driver may look on the box of an English carriage, and absurd a couple of turbaned grooms painfully crouching behind, or standing on one leg each on the “dickey” steps, a sweet English face, surrounded by the edge of a lovely little bonnet, is always a pleasant sight. The riding habit, too, is graced by some of these pretty faces and figures—the most graceful of all being Lady Canning. It is delightful to see her canter along, the centre of a brilliant group, her intelligent and beautiful eyes animated in conversation, or with their not less charming expression of repose—fiére and gentle at the same time.
Long before the Course begins to thin, it is almost dark, and then—at least if the poor lounger is “unattached,” and, instead of being seated in one of the before-mentioned enviable voitures, or, perhaps happier still, walking his horse across the plain beside some well-trained Arab, he is sharing his buggy with a friend as unfortunate as himself—the general effect of the scene before him is the most interesting object for his gaze. The carriages continue to whirl past, but one sees hardly more of them than their lamps. The river glides, cold and shining, along silvery light under the opposite bank, while trees and masts and rigging relieve themselves, as in a picture of Giorgione’s, against the golden bars of the distant sky. But the band ceases to play, and we all go home to dress.
If the traveller chooses—which, they say, is rare with Englishmen abroad—to leave the society of his compatriots, he may find many an amusing drive in the native parts of the town. Tall Sikhs, whose hair and beards have never known scissors or razor, and who stride along with a trooper-like swagger and high caste dignity; effeminate Cingalese; Hindoo clerks, smirking and conceited, and dandified, too, according to their own notions; almost naked palkee-bearers, who, nevertheless, if there is the slightest